More than a year after my children's father died, we're still learning how to transition

There she has slept for more than a year. She is almost unfailingly happy and easygoing, already athletic and adventurous, and has the sweetest little spirit. Even before she drew a breath on this earth, she and God knew exactly what I needed, exactly what I could handle, and that’s exactly what they gave me. She is an incredible gift.

Every night I sing to a little girl who never got to meet her father. I sing, “Dear Theodosia,” from “Hamilton.” It’s a song Jake never heard, but I sing it because it sounds just like her father singing to her, about the things he cared most about. “You will come of age with our young nation / We’ll bleed and fight for you / We’ll make it right for you. / If we lay a strong enough foundation / We’ll pass it onto you / We’ll give the world to you / And you’ll blow us all away. Someday, someday.”

I thought about moving her into her big sister’s room around the one-year anniversary of Jake’s death. She’d have been fine, but it made me anxious. Maybe it’s because I don’t want to mark time by that date. That day will always be important, but it is gray. The birth of our little girl is something brighter, something new.